


Photograph

by Pollydoodles



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 16:08:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9556406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pollydoodles/pseuds/Pollydoodles
Summary: When the chips are down, Steve knows a guy who can help.





	

All he has is one photograph. 

It’s battered, creased from where he’s stuffed it into the back pocket of his jeans. Dog eared from the many times he’s nervously jerked it out, committing the face in it to a memory that doesn’t need to shown yet again. 

He rides in the very back of the bus, jacket collar hitched around his face, baseball cap pulled lower over a face that’s graced with three days worth of stubble. Blue eyes twitch over the other occupants, shifting in a seat that seems designed to be uncomfortable. 

The backpack he carries - has always carried, the only thing that he can say with certainty belongs to him and him alone - is wedged between his legs. One foot taps insistently against the rubber matting that covers the floor, and somewhere in the back of his ever-moving mind he wonders when he came a person who cannot sit still. 

The journey seems to last forever. 

Endless road, stretching on and on in front of him. Copycat town after copycat town, so identical to the last that eventually he begins to wonder if he’s dead, and this is the purgatory that his many crimes have damned him to endure. 

But by and by the bus pulls into a service station - just as unremarkable as all the rest - with a wheeze and a groan that he can’t help but mirror himself as he stretches out legs that have become cramped with inactivity. 

Through the steam from the ancient vehicle, the puff of smoke that rises like breath against the cool night air, he can see a figure silhouetted by a flickering street light that can’t decide if it has enough energy left to stay on. The last few remaining passengers, a bunch almost as eclectic as himself, stir into slow movement. 

He scrambles for his back pocket, tired fingers finding the edges of the photograph and pulling too quickly at the well-thumbed paper. A curse escapes him as it rips, the sound soft in the darkness but all too loud to his own ears. 

The two pieces he fumbles in one hand, his right, fingers bringing them to his face so that he can focus in the dim light. The tear is jagged and uneven, slicing the girl in the photograph into two distinct pieces, but he is still at least able to make her out. A petite blonde, eyes defiant and with more than a hint of challenge that reminds him of the man who’s sent him here. 

He stumbles into action and hauls the backpack up and over one shoulder, tugging the cap down as far as it will go and sinking his chin into his jacket collar. His footsteps are heavy on the steps and he tips a curt nod of thanks to the driver who’s long since stopped paying any mind to his passengers. 

Boots hit gravel for the first time in what feels like an age, and his back straightens despite himself. Warm breath heats the air, turns steamy and curls into the night air as he makes a step forward toward the figure now leaning nonchalantly against the lamp post. 

An eyebrow is raised his way, and gum snaps. 

He stops, boots thudding together with one hand gripping hard at the strap of his backpack as it cuts into his shoulder. The ends of his hair, grown long again, tickle against the bare skin of his neck as he shifts from one foot to the other in front of her. 

“James Barnes?” She asks, not making a move away from the post against which her shoulders rest. Her voice cuts through the air, and he knows instantly that she is used to command. “Bucky?”

He nods, movement conservative and short, eyes sliding from the girl to the empty parking lot they’re standing in. He’s more than aware of her gaze upon him, stripping him from head to toe as she continues to chew. A lazy pink bubble expands from her lips, before it pops - a loud snap that seems almost to echo. 

“Rogers said he’d send someone,” the girl says, finally straightening up, arms folding over her chest as she squares up in front of him. Her eyes flicker over his left arm, and linger briefly on where the seams of his jacket are straining to cover an arm much larger than the other. 

A van squeals into the lot, smoke fogging from the exhaust, and the blonde turns her head to it quickly before fixing him with a long look. The vehicle screeches to a halt just inches behind the girl, and the wash from it ruffles her hair, though she makes no attempt to move. 

“Buffy Summers,” she says, almost carelessly. “The Slayer. Now get in the van, we’ve got work to do.”


End file.
